


if this is the start

by theundiagnosable



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, M/M, ft. domestic fluff ludicrous amounts of denial matching sweaters and terrible latte art, this is it the single most self indulgent thing ive ever written or will ever write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 06:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11822871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable
Summary: “Babe,” Mitch says, collapsing onto the couch. “Matts, I just got hit on by the hottest barista I’ve ever seen in mylife."“Nice.” Auston high fives him.





	if this is the start

**Author's Note:**

> hover for translations of the Swedish stuff! (or see end notes if you're on mobile!)

**i.**

Marns gets home and flings the door open all dramatic, which he does at least once a day, so Auston doesn’t think anything of it.

“You’re going to dent the wall again,” he says without looking up from his laptop. He’s been trawling through stock footage for hours, cutting together a bunch of clips of Jays interviews for this PR thing.

“Fuck the wall,” Mitch says grandly, tossing his shoes in the general direction of the doormat and rounding the corner into the living room. He’s still in his sweats and an oldass hoodie, didn’t even bother changing before making a coffee run. “I come bearing news.”

Auston holds out a hand, hopeful, and looks up from his screen for the first time. “And caffeine?”

Mitch hands Auston one of the cups with this exaggerated almost-bow, like, straight out of Pride and Prejudice. “And caffeine.”

“You’re amazing,” Auston says, grateful and at least a little delirious, grabbing the coffee with both hands and breathing in deep. He’s been staring at this segment for, just. So fucking long. Jose Bautista’s face is probably burnt into his eyeballs.

Mitch kind of laughs, looking down at Auston all fond. “You talking to me or the latte?”

“Maybe both?” Auston says, thinking about it. “Both, probably.”

Mitch rolls his eyes and, without warning, flings himself down on the couch, half on top of Auston so he almost spills his entire coffee all over both of them. It’s only years of Mitch-related experience that give Auston time to react, holding his cup out carefully and shifting his laptop out of the way with his free hand. It’s a pretty impressive feat of gymnastics, he thinks.

“Babe,” Mitch says, oblivious, scooting over so he’s mostly in Auston’s lap. “Matts, I just got hit on by the hottest new barista I’ve ever seen in my _life_.” He turns around his cup so Auston can see the little sunshine doodled next to Mitch’s name, the _hi!_ written underneath.

“Nice.” Auston holds his hand up for a high five. It’s kind of a bad angle, close quarters, but Mitch returns it enthusiastically enough.

“Fuck yeah,” he agrees, proud, then kind of wilts. “I was really lame, though.”

“Did you accidentally say your name was Meetch again?”

Mitch scowls, even though Auston brings up the ‘Meetch’ thing at least once a week, because it’s probably his favourite thing ever to happen. “ _No_. That was _one time_ , also.”

Auston tries his latte, careful not to burn his tongue. There’s cinnamon on top, the way he likes it. “What’d you do?”

Mitch sighs. “He flipped his hair and I got so distracted I asked for four shots of espresso.”

“Um,” Auston says, a little alarmed, looking down at the to-go cup Mitch has been sipping from this entire time. Last thing Marns needs is more caffeine.

“Yeah, so I might go into cardiac arrest,” Mitch goes on, following Auston’s gaze. “But that’s not the point.”

“It’s arguably _a_ point, though,” Auston says, dry, and Mitch rolls his eyes but goes on like Auston didn’t speak.

“The point,” he says, “is that he was beautiful. And now we need a new coffee place.”

“You get hit on all the time,” Auston reminds him, and trails a hand up and down Mitch’s side, mostly absently. He knows it’s all talk – the Starbucks is literally in the lobby of their building. Way too convenient to make anywhere else a real possibility.

“That’s true,” Mitch says, distracted by the compliment. He’s so easy. “I’m pretty irresistible.” 

“Humble, also.” Auston adds, and Marns shoves at his face, gentle. And, fine, Auston’s distracted too, now, because Mitch may be easy but Auston’s easy for him, which is possibly the thesis statement for their entire relationship.

“Shut up, you’re so into me.”

“Eh,” Auston shrugs, fighting to keep his expression neutral. “You’re okay, I guess. Meetch.”

Mitch groans, this pitiful attempt at hiding a laugh. “I hate you.”

“Meetchell Marner,” Auston says, and now they’re both kind of giggling, right up close, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lean in and catch Marns’ lips. It’s not leading anywhere, both of them too tired to try and start something at this time on a Wednesday night; just a couple of lazy presses of lips. Mitch brushes their noses together when Auston pulls back.

“Thank you for the coffee,” Auston says, soft, and Mitch hums contentedly, eyes still shut.

“Video going okay?”

Auston makes a face and runs a hand through his hair, settling back against the couch. “It’s going.”

Mitch leans in for one last quick peck, sympathetic, before leaning across Auston to grab the remote and switch on the TV. It’s just a panel on TSN, a bunch of announcers discussing offseason trades and the Jays’ prospects while Mitch makes himself comfy next to Auston, resting his head on his shoulder.

It’s not the most convenient position – Auston has to reach his left hand around Mitch to get at his keyboard, and Mitch’s coffee cup is uncomfortably hot where it’s leaning on Auston’s thigh – but they stay like that, cuddled up. Auston alternates between watching the panel and pretending to work on the footage, can’t even bring himself to mind that he’s going to have to stay up late to finish.

It’s pretty good, as far as distractions go.

\-------

Auston doesn’t really think anything more about Mitch’s hot barista, not that night and not after. It’s not unimportant, exactly, just- he wasn’t lying, when he said Marns gets hit on all the time. If Auston was the jealous type, he figures he’d know by now. He’d probably forget the whole thing entirely, except for that he heads down to Starbucks a few days later when he’s stuck on his next project.

It’s more for a change of scenery than anything else, even if it’s just down a few flights of stairs. Perk of working from home’s that Starbucks is quiet during the day – or, not quiet, exactly, because they’re still in the middle of the city, but it’s after the lunch rush, so it’s empty enough that there’s no line and even a free seat right at the counter, next to the outlets. Only a couple staff on duty.

It’d be kind of hard _not_ to notice the guy behind the counter, is the point.

It’s not really a question that this is who Mitch was talking about. He's- ‘pretty’ is probably the right word, Auston thinks. Like, he’s almost as tall as Auston, and not girly by any means, but there’s something almost... delicate about his features. And-

His _hair_.

 _dude_ , Auston texts Marns the second he’s placed his order and taken a seat. _starbucks boy_.

 _TOLD YOU!!!!!_ Mitch sends back not even a minute later, even though Auston’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be at a presser right now. _leonardo dicaprio vibes tho amiright??????_

Auston pretends to be looking at the case with the pastries and peeks over at the guy making his drink. He thinks about it for a couple seconds.

_young leo maybe._

_duh,_ Mitch responds. _ill never let go, starbucks boy._

 _very lame mitchell_ , Auston sends back, and he’s still grinning at his phone like an idiot when he hears “Venti cappuccino for Auston?”

“Here.” He waves a hand automatically and completely unnecessarily, considering he’s seated right across from the guy.

Hot barista – Willy, it says on his nametag – hands the drink over, does this jaunty little salute. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks,” Auston says. He’s already distracted, looking at the little paper sleeve on his cup. There’s no doodle, no scrawled ‘hi!’. So it _was_ flirting, then, with Mitch. Not really a surprise. Still. Marns’ll gives Auston shit for weeks, about the hot new barista thinking he’s the good-looking one. Which he is, like, objectively, but-

“Did I spell your name wrong?”

Auston blinks, hard, and wrenches his gaze away from his coffee to see Willy the barista leaning across the counter, looking right at him. Auston scoots his seat back, just a little. “What?”

“On the cup,” clarifies Willy. “You’re staring.”

“Oh,” Auston says, a little taken aback at being caught. The cup does say ‘Austin’, actually. “I mean, yeah, but everyone does. That’s not- don’t worry about it.”

“Not worried, man. It’s just coffee.” Willy says, then laughs like they’re buddies, and the weirdest part is he’s not even being sarcastic. Before Auston can decide whether or not to be offended, Willy’s talking again.

“You look busy,” he says, nodding at Auston’s computer, all conversational. He’s got his chin in his hands, leaning on the counter like he’s not planning on moving. “Usually people are running in and out of here.”

“’Usually?’ Aren’t you new here?” Auston asks, and realizes belatedly that that kind of sounds like he keeps tabs on his baristas, which. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even talk to them, usually, beyond the necessities.

Hot barista guy – Willy – doesn’t look bothered. “But observant.” And there’s not really anything Auston can say to that, so he doesn’t try, just takes a sip of his drink and glances at his laptop. Willy follows his gaze, looks like he’s still waiting for an explanation.

Auston’s not really sure why he gives him one. “I work from home,” he says, and taps on his keyboard, kind of protective. “Graphics stuff. I’m down here a lot, so.”

“Graphics,” Willy echoes, and there’re no customers, and he’s still standing there like he’s expecting something, so Auston spins his laptop around to show him what he’s working on. It’s pretty cool looking, actually, one of the bumpers they’re going to show between segments. The animation is simple in theory, a bunch of different team logos kind of flipping together into the NHL shield. Less simple in practice, if the ludicrous amount of time it’s taken is any indication.

“That’s actually sick!” Willy grins, and Auston realizes for the first time that he’s got kind of an accent. It’s barely even there, not really from anywhere Auston recognizes, just this rounded sort of sound at the edges of some of his words. “It’s like- very fancy.”

Auston can’t help being a little mollified. He’s good at what he does. Still nice to have someone notice. “Yeah, I guess. You’re a hockey fan, then?”

Willy nods. “You?”

Auston shrugs. “My boyfriend’s obsessed with the Leafs. Got me pretty into them, too.”

“Your boy’s got good taste,” Willy says, and it’s not really Auston’s fault that he has to brag a little about Mitch, then, because it’s probably his favourite hobby.

“Marns – my boyfriend, I mean – is a reporter,” Auston can’t resist saying, proud. “He interviews players for, like, articles and those clips they show at games. Official stuff.”

“No shit?” Willy looks suitably impressed. It makes Auston like him more, instantly.

“No shit,” Auston says. It looks like Willy wants to say something else, but there’s a pointed cough from behind his back. They both look to see a woman waiting by the register, looking impatiently at her watch.

Auston kind of shifts in his seat. “Sorry.”

Willy waves him off, rolling his eyes while he goes to help the lady, and it occurs to Auston that he’s kind of a terrible barista. Nice, though. He texts Marns that, because he thinks it’s the kind of thing he’d want to know. _hot starbs guy is chill + likes the leafs._

Mitch sends back a shit-ton of heart emojis, then _ask him to draw u like one of his french girls._ Auston grins at his phone, takes a swig of his cappuccino, then puts his headphones on and settles in to work on the logo. 

There’s a little bit of a line forming, people coming for their afternoon caffeine fix. Auston cranks up the volume and mostly tunes them out, only vaguely aware of Willy and his coworker filling orders. The change of scenery thing seems to be working out, because he works straight through six songs without hitting a roadblock, finally manages to get the Flyers’ crest to move like he’s been picturing.

He’s pretty in the zone, even after the crowd dissipates, so it takes him a second to register that Willy’s back in front of him, wiping down the counter with a wet cloth, and that he’s saying something, drowned out by Auston’s music.

Auston pulls off his headphones. “Sorry, what?”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it’s not for Willy to say, as though it’s a perfectly logical place to pick up the conversation, “I once served a danish to Tukka Rask in a café in Paris.”

Auston kind of stares, because he’s not sure how he’s supposed to believe that or even pretend to. He might be getting fucked with. “No shit?” he asks, wary, and Willy just stares back, guileless. 

“No shit,” he says, and it feels kind of like a promise, which is absurd, except then Willy grins like they’re both in on some joke, and Auston figures he’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

\-------

He becomes friends with Willy without really meaning to. Auston gets the impression that he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter, like Willy made up his mind after that first day, and that’s that.

That’s not Auston complaining – Willy’s cool, really cool. Content to do most of the talking and give Auston free desserts even when his manager’s watching, which is pretty ballsy. He’s actually got a decent eye for design, too, makes a few good suggestions about stuff Auston’s working on when they aren’t talking about the Leafs or stuff to do in Toronto or a weird customer Willy had the other day. They talk a lot, considering they’re both supposed to be working.

Auston is okay with it. Auston is more than okay with it, probably, which is maybe weird, because Willy is still flirting with Mitch every day.

It’s not his fault. Or. It is, but it’s not like he’s being an asshole, because he’s got no clue that Mitch and Auston are together. Auston means to tell him. Almost brings it up a bunch of times that first couple of weeks, except he’s not sure how to say it without sounding, like, _accusatory_ , all bullshit macho possessiveness that’s vaguely insulting to everyone involved. And then it’s almost August and Willy starts calling him Matty and it’d just be super awkward to bring it up, at this point.

He doesn’t care, is the thing. He’s not that insecure, knows Marns could get flirted with by a million hot baristas and maybe flirt back and still choose Auston, because that’s- the two of them, it’s not a question. Like his mom says: when you know, you know.

So Auston and Willy keep being friends, and Willy keeps drawing little pictures on Auston’s boyfriend’s coffee cups without knowing any better, and it’s fine. Kind of fun, if Auston’s being honest. Mitch is having a blast with the whole thing, sending Auston pictures of the drawings every morning after he leaves for work, the two of them trying to guess the motivation behind each one. The doodles get more elaborate over time: a little maple leaf, a heart, a face with a giant grin that Auston’s pretty sure is supposed to be Marns and Marns insists isn’t. Auston almost asks Willy about it, for proof, before he remembers himself and breaks off mid-sentence.

He finds himself working down in the coffeeshop more days than not. He can usually be decently productive in the time it takes to sip at a large coffee and listen to whatever Willy’s got to say, and still have time to hit up the gym or start dinner for whenever Marns gets home.

It’s becoming a habit, for better or worse, and it’s weird. Not because of the flirting with Mitch thing, just- Auston doesn’t really seek out people’s company, usually. Like, he’s not a loner, but he’s fine with being alone. Is, a lot of the time, just by virtue of his job.

It’s just more fun being alone with Willy, is all. He’s easy to be around. _Preferable_ to be around, when Marns isn’t an option, even if they’re both just doing their respective work. Auston says as much to Mitch one night when they’re lazing around in their pajamas, him scrolling through insta while Mitch is lying on his stomach at the other end of the bed, leaning on his godawful backpack and trying to write a blog post.

Marns laughs at him.

“You’re a cat,” he says like it’s the obvious response. 

“What?” Auston half-laughs, confused. “What does that mean?”

Mitch shrugs, still typing. “You need someone around,” he explains. “Like- you want to be left alone and do your thing, but just. To know that there’s someone you trust in proximity.” 

“Proximity,” Auston echoes, skeptical. Marns has always been able to read him for filth, but this is new, and he’s not sure he knows what to do with it. It’s not _wrong_. Weird hearing it in words, though.

Mitch is still talking. “Yeah, y’know. Like us, now. Or your Swedish coffee friend.”

“It’s not the same,” Auston says, without really knowing why.

“I know, but- it is, in some ways. We’re like. Catsitters? I dunno. Fuck metaphors, I guess.”

“Hmph.” Auston keeps it as noncommittal as he can, still in his own head. Mitch peers over his shoulder at Auston. It kind of looks like he’s trying not to laugh. 

“Stop thinking.” he says, somehow managing to be chirping and reassuring at the same time. “It’s cute.”

And it’s kind of unfair, Auston thinks, that they’ve been together as long as they have and Marns can still smirk at him and say flirty shit like that and make Auston want to hide his face in his pillow and smile. It’s like- it’s a superpower, maybe, except no one ever gave Marns the ‘with great power comes great responsibility’ speech.

“You’re cute,” Auston retorts, mostly nonsensical, and when Mitch laughs, he sets down his phone and crawls down the bed so he can press a kiss to the nape of Mitch’s neck, set a hand on his back and rub little circles there through his t-shirt, relishing in the little sigh it elicits. 

He doesn’t move when Mitch goes back to focusing on his writing, just stays tracing the planes of his back. He can feel the tension going out of Marns under the impromptu massage and, encouraged, pushes a little harder. It’s fun to watch Mitch work, the way he mutters half-sentences to himself and traces the keys on the keyboard when he’s stuck.

Auston’s hand is low enough on Mitch’s back to trace the waist of his boxers, now, a question. 

Mitch kicks at him half-heartedly. “I’ve gotta finish this post,” he says, but he’s smiling, humming with a new, better kind of tension.

“I’m not doing anything,” Auston says, innocent. He can see Mitch watching from the corner of his eye while Auston drags his hand lower, rests it all casual right along the inside of Marns’ thigh.

Mitch holds out for, like, thirty seconds before slamming his laptop shut, clambering on top of Auston. “Ah, fuck it,” he says, and he can maybe tell that there’s a joke on Auston’s lips, something incredibly low-brow about fucking, because he’s smiling when he leans down to kiss him. 

\-------

“Okay,” Willy slides the cup across the counter to Auston. He’s been busy over by the machines for almost fifteen minutes, even without customers. “Be honest, does this latte art look like a dick?” 

Auston takes out his headphones, looks at the cup then back at Willy, unsure. “Is it… not supposed to be a dick?”

Willy pouts. “It’s a _rose_ ,” he says, and slumps face-first onto the counter. Auston slides his stuff out of the way in one practiced movement.

“That’s a dick, buddy.”

“My manager’s going to kill me.” Willy mopes, and Auston leaves him to it. The two of them don’t really do sympathy, he doesn’t think; and if Willy’s boss hasn’t gotten rid of him by now, she’s probably not going to.

He takes a sip of the latte – it tastes decent, at least – and, since Willy’s not showing any intention of moving, goes back to the email he’s trying to type out. Emails with clients are the worst part of his job. Emails with clients are the worst part of every job. Still, he’s never been a procrastinator, manages to finish that first one and get back to his boss before he’s even halfway through the dick latte. He’s focused, which is why it takes him a while to realize that Willy’s watching him, leaning on his arms and staring.

It catches Auston off guard, puts this weird feeling in the bottom of his stomach. Not quite shy. “What?” he asks, and pokes at Willy’s elbow. 

Willy just stares up at him, curious. “How’d you end up in Toronto?” He has a tendency to do this, Auston’s learning, to say stuff like he’s picking up in the middle of a conversation they weren’t exactly having. Auston doesn’t really understand what goes on in Willy’s head. Doesn’t think he could, if he tried, so he just does his best to give him an answer.

“Came here for school. I wasn’t planning to stay after, but I met Marns, so.”

Willy sits up, interested, now. “You’ve been together since _college_?”

“Freshman year,” Auston nods, settles into the grooves of the story he’s told a million times. “We got paired up for a project.” Even back then, Mitch was the centre of every room he was in, seeming to know everyone’s name and major while Auston was still trying to figure out how to get to his psych tutorial. “I was so nervous to talk to him. Like- shaking.” 

Willy laughs, and it’s definitely at Auston, but not in an asshole way. “I’m trying to picture- Was this before or after you got hot?” 

Auston’s brain kind of glitches, just for a second, because he’s not really sure what the right response is, here. Like, freshman him definitely still had baby fat and a weird thing for wearing ripped jeans, but it’s not as if there was a turning point of- of hotness. It even sounds dumb in his head. His mom still squishes his cheeks. He still owns too many pairs of ripped jeans.

Willy thinks he’s hot.

“Shut up,” is what he settles for, eventually, and Willy just rolls his eyes, so Auston guesses it was an okay answer. He shuts his laptop, rests his chin in his hands. “How’d you get here? From Sweden?”

“I was born in Calgary, actually.” Will says, then shrugs. “There’s not really a story. We moved around a lot when I was little, with my dad’s work. Then, just. Never really stopped.” He says it without pausing, casual as anything. There’s something there, anyways, something too deliberate in how light his tone is. Auston doesn’t force the issue.

“Why Toronto?”

“Why not?” Willy retorts, and the corner of his mouth tugs upwards at the look on Auston’s face. “Good hockey, I guess.”

Auston scoffs, a little incredulous. “Just like that?” Then, when Will nods, “Nothing’s that easy.”

“Some stuff is,” Willy says, and it’s back, that something in his voice. “You and your Marns.” 

Auston lets out this half-laugh, even though it wasn’t really funny. And Willy’s still smiling, and nothing happened, is the thing, but the moment’s weirdly heavy anyways, suddenly and for no good reason. Auston’s not sure when the conversation turned into this, not sure exactly what _this_ is.

It’s just them looking at each other from across the counter until Willy does this odd little hum, pushes himself off. The spell breaks.

Auston watches as Willy grabs his cup, even though it’s not really empty yet, tosses it in the trash, and busies himself with the latte machine again. Auston runs a hand through his hair, sits up a little straighter. _You and your Marns_ is repeating in his chest, like a heartbeat.

It’s a couple minutes before Willy says, without turning around, loud so Auston can hear him over the whirring of the machine, “I’ll probably just stick around until I’m bored, same as always.”

Auston’s not sure why that one hits him so hard. Willy’s the kind of guy who banters with strangers in coffeeshops and sketches little pictures on their to-go cups. Of course he’s not going to be happy here forever. He’s going to fly off to some place where they don’t have horrifying winters, be one of those people who artists paint before losing their minds. 

Still. Auston doesn’t want Willy to get bored of here. Of him, or Marns, or any of this. 

“There!” Willy says, triumphant, before Auston can get around to saying – or, more likely, not saying – any of that. “This, this is a rose. I’m the fucking- I’m Starbucks Michelangelo.” 

He wheels around, holds out the new cup for Auston to see. Auston peers in at the design in the frothed milk, then at Willy.

“Nice,” he says, and he thinks he does a decent job of being convincing until Willy’s brow furrows.

“No,” Willy says, “no, you can’t tell me this looks like a dick. It’s a flower!”

“I literally didn’t say anything.” Auston protests, and Willy points a finger at him like a lawyer on one of those late-night courtroom dramas. It’s over-the-top, dumb, but it feels like an offering, intentionally breaking whatever weird tension they fell into.

“You implied it. With your face. It’s not a dick.”

Auston rolls his eyes – tries to be nice, this is what he gets – but can’t quite hold back a smile. He feels, all at once, a ridiculous fondness. “Whatever you say, Will.”

“It’s not a dick,” Willy repeats, mostly to himself, craning his neck to look at the latte from different angles. “It’s- oh, fuck. Yeah, I see it. It’s a dick.” 

\-------

It does something complicated in Auston’s gut, when he finds the cup with Willy’s number.

It’s his turn to clean the bathroom, so he’s on his hands and knees in the kitchen, searching through the cupboard under the sink for the Windex that he’s decently sure they own. And Marns took out the recycling on his way out earlier, but a couple things must’ve fallen out, like always, because Auston moves the thing of Lysol and finds two empty toilet paper rolls and a Starbucks cup with a phone number on it in familiar writing, a little winking face drawn next to it.

He doesn’t know what he expected. Mitch sent him a picture of the cup when Willy gave it to him a few days ago, captioned it _barista boy is getting realllllll don’t be jelly_ with about twenty different emojis. Aside from giving Marns shit for texting like a teenage girl, Auston hadn’t really taken much notice. He was sort of surprised that it took this long, actually, because Willy didn’t really seem like the kind of dude to be anything but direct.

This was pretty direct.

Auston doesn’t know what it’s called, what he’s feeling. It’s not like he was expecting Mitch to actually call or text or whatever, because even Marns gets that there’re boundaries; not like Auston exactly wants his boyfriend to hit up people who give him his number.

He doesn’t want Willy to be hurt either, though, and that’s the confusing part. Auston knows Mitch well enough to know he wasn’t an asshole about it, probably brushed it off with a joke and complimented Willy on the coffee, drank it just like normal before throwing out the cup like it was nothing special. 

There’s something kind of pathetic about it all the same, sitting there all alone next to the trash.

And it hits Auston like a tonne of bricks: He’s _sad_ about this. He has to actually take a moment to think about that one, how much it’s the most stupid thing ever, because, just. What the fuck? It’s this ridiculous mess of thoughts, like, hurt on Willy’s behalf, kind of vindicated with Mitch, and he doesn’t know how those are supposed to coexist, but they are. 

Auston’s eyes land on the bottle of Windex mostly by accident, but he grabs it like it’s a life preserver, bangs his head on the pipes when he’s getting back to his feet. He makes himself leave the coffee cup behind, doesn’t even pick it up to throw it in the bin again. He has to fight this weird urge to copy down the number and text Willy, or to tell Marns to text him, or to-

He doesn’t know.

He really, really doesn’t know.

\-------

It’s kind of a relief when everything finally gets sorted out, even if it happens mostly by accident.

They’re walking home from the subway station after dinner with Marns’ brother and his new girlfriend, because Mitch couldn’t be bothered to wait the fifteen minutes for a bus. Auston agreed with him, but he’s sort of starting to regret it: It’s chilly for this time of year, even with his beanie and scarf and thick jacket, a cutting wind and rain that can’t seem to decide whether or not it wants to be snow.

Mitch is just in a hoodie. Canadians are real dicks about the whole winter thing, Auston thinks. 

They get to the huge intersection by their place, join the crowd of people waiting to cross the road. Auston listens to cars honking at each other like they’re arguing, watches them making illegal left turns; catches snippets of other pedestrians’ conversations. He jogs in place, trying to stay warm.

“Fuck the cold,” he says, not for the first time. “We need a car. We’re selling all your Leafs centennial stuff to buy a car.”

“You’re so- it’s _October_.” At Auston’s side, Mitch laughs, fond and exasperated all at once. “You’re such a bad honorary Canadian.” He loves giving Auston shit about hating the cold, but he also holds out his arms obligingly, then, when Auston steps in, slips his hands under his jacket and rubs his back, acting like a human furnace. Auston presses closer, lets Mitch hold onto him.

“Technically, not owning a car is us being environmentally friendly,” Mitch continues, thoughtful, while they wait for the light to change. “We’re basically, like. David Suzuki.”

“You’re David Suzuki,” Auston retorts darkly, and Mitch smiles, soft, and reaches up to fix Auston’s hair, tucking a loose strand back under his hat. He lets his hand linger there, and Auston leans into the warmth. There’s a few seconds where they’re just standing there, pressed close, sleet blowing around them.

“I wanna kiss you right now,” Mitch announces. 

Auston noses at Mitch’s palm. “You never have to ask.”

“I know,” Mitch says, and nods in the direction of the road, “but it’s our turn to cross and I think we should probably get you inside before you start shivering. Probably’d kill the mood.”

“What mood?” Auston asks, straight-faced. “I’m just talking about my favourite Canadian environmentalist, David Suzuki-”

“Shut up, oh my god.” Mitch is laughing, but they both are, and he’s right about the shivering thing, so Auston lets himself be dragged across the road, keeps holding on to Marns’ hand while they’re rounding the corner to their place.

He sees the figure out front before he realizes who it is, dragging two huge trash bags towards the curb. The guy steps into the light, and Auston realizes: It’s Willy, at the end of the night shift. He’s in just a t-shirt and apron – Auston’s colder just looking at him – with his hair like a halo under the streetlights.

“Will,” he calls automatically, and raises his free hand in greeting while they approach. He sees Mitch glance at him from the corner of his eye, not surprised exactly, but close, and realizes that he never quite got around to telling Willy about them. So, fine. They’re doing this now, he guesses.

Willy straightened when Auston called out to him, and now, recognizing him, he grins. 

“Hey, Matty,” Willy says, “and-” Auston sees the moment Willy glances at Mitch, then, a couple seconds later, the moment it clicks and he realizes who he’s looking at. It’s sort of funny, how slow it dawns on his face. 

Mitch waves. 

The three of them are taking up the whole sidewalk, and there’s a design joke there, maybe, something about the rule of thirds, except.before Auston’s brain can get there, Willy’s looking from him to Marns and back again, wide-eyed. “You two know each other?”

“Nah, no clue who this guy is,” Mitch quips, and Auston rolls his eyes, figures he’d better take pity before Willy can look any more confused, if that’s even possible.

“We live upstairs,” he explains. “This is-”

“Mitch, I know.” Willy cuts in, looking between them. “Mitch is Marns?”

“Uniquely terrible nickname, right?” Mitch says cheerily while Auston nods. Willy looks mortified, like a months worth of coffee doodles and probably-awful flirting is flashing before his eyes. 

“Oh, man. I- Sorry, I didn’t know you two were-” 

He looks genuinely distraught, enough that Auston has to interrupt, a little guiltily. “It’s really fine, man. I should’ve said.” 

“That would’ve been- yeah, dude.” Willy shoves his hands in his pockets, looks over at Marns like he’s expecting to get yelled at. “I promise I wouldn’t have been hitting on you if I knew.”

“Hey, no, don’t worry. People give me their numbers all the time,” Mitch says, kind. “I think it’s ‘cause I have, like, a generally non-threatening vibe?”

“Okay,” Willy says, and he still sounds kind of freaked, but not freaked enough that he can’t continue. “I mean, same, but it also might be just because I’m hot.”

“Probably,” Mitch agrees, settling back against Auston like this is a perfectly normal conversation to be having outside of a Starbucks at quarter to midnight. “You kind of look like a snow angel.”

Willy looks genuinely awestruck, any awkwardness forgotten. “’Snow angel’ would be such a good caption for a selfie, oh my god.”

“Right?” Mitch says, excited. “With the-” they both finish at the same time, “-snowflake emoji!”

They both laugh, and, after staring for a long second, a little incredulous, Auston can’t help but do the same, because – and, okay, they aren’t the same, it’s two different relationships, but, just – god, he has a _type_.

He covers his mouth, can’t stop giggling even when Willy raises an eyebrow, questioning. “Sorry, I just- I never realized,” Auston tries to explain, except then he pictures the two of them having this exchange in the lineup at Starbucks every morning for the past month and laughs even harder, helpless. It takes him too long to be able to finish, “The two of you are fucking soulmates, oh my god.”

It takes a second for that to hit, but then Willy’s laughing and stuff’s okay again.

“Shush,” Mitch chides, kind of blushing, and tugs Auston’s hat down over his eyes. All Auston sees is light filtered through blue wool, then the hat’s lifted up before he has a chance to do it himself. It takes him a second to realize it’s Willy who fixed the hat, and there’s something in that, maybe, but he’s talking before Auston has a chance to dwell on it.

Will drums his fingers on the Leafs logo before pulling back. “Nice hat.”

“It’s _mine_ ,” Mitch jumps in, never one to be out of the loop. “He’s a hat thief and a fake fan.”

“Brat,” Auston chides, hip-checks Mitch, pointed.

“You’re the Leafs reporter boyfriend,” Willy realizes out loud, and he’s smiling. “This makes sense.”

Mitch does this exaggerated gasp, big and goofy. “Aw, babe, you talked about me?”

“No,” Auston lies, at the same time as Willy says, “Literally all the time, oh man.” 

“That’s so lame!” Mitch says, delighted, and they’re both beaming over at Auston, and it feels bigger than he can put words to, all of a sudden.

“ _Really_ lame,” Willy agrees, oblivious, and elbows Mitch. “You should’ve heard him, dude.”

“You gotta tell me everything,” Mitch enthuses, and Willy looks like he’s going to take him up on the offer. Auston’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, but he’s not nervous. The opposite, actually, because he thinks he’s been waiting for this, Marns and Willy laughing and giving him shit together, for months without realizing it. It’s like something settles in his chest.

It’s the first time the three of them have talked, all together. It doesn’t feel like it.

 

**ii.**

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Mitch mutters under his breath, kneeling on the couch while the clock ticks down on overtime. Leafs have been hemmed in their zone for the last minute and a half, like a fucking shooting gallery, honest to god, and Mitch is going to have an actual heart attack. “C’mon, c’mon Gardiner, get it out-”

Both he and Matts flinch when a shot pings off the post, and Auston kind of laughs at himself, after. Mitch barely notices, practically jumping up on the couch. Thirty-four seconds left.

There’s a hammering at their door, fast and urgent. Mitch doesn’t peel his eyes off the screen. “Babe-” he says, but Auston’s on his feet before he even has to ask. A+ boyfriend material, this one.

Sixteen seconds and Zaitsev’s cleared it, by the time the door’s open and Willy’s shedding his shoes in the front hall, still in his work stuff. “Did I miss it, did I miss it?” He must’ve sprinted up here after his shift to catch the end.

Mitch shakes his head, “Gonna be a shootout,” and moves a pillow so Willy can hurtle the arm of the couch and sit next to him, Matts following him in just in time to watch the buzzer go with the score still 3-3.

“Shit,” Willy says, but doesn’t even pretend not to sound happy to catch some of the game. He unties his apron, flings it onto the armchair while Auston shoves Mitch, gentle, ‘til he makes room on his other side. The couch maybe isn’t big enough for the three of them, because Mitch is not as small as Matts likes to imply, thank you very much. They make it work anyways, Auston resting his legs on the coffee table while Mitch holds out the bowl of popcorn, a wordless offer, and Willy shoves a handful in his mouth, and they watch the teams getting set for the shootout like that.

It should probably be more of a thing than it is, the way they’ve kind of adopted Willy. It’s not _not_ a thing, ‘cause Mitch can’t say he was expecting it, exactly, but. He’s not surprised. This stuff never really surprises him. He knew it after maybe the second time they all spoke, certain like he tends to be about important shit: Willy _fits_. With Mitch and later with Auston, yeah, but also with MitchAndAuston, the two of them together, and that, more than anything else, is the surprising part. People can get intimidated, sometimes, hanging out with just him and Matts, the way they are. And Mitch’d never try to make someone feel like a third wheel, goes out of his way to do the opposite, usually, but- he gets it.

Willy, in the understatement of perhaps the last few centuries, does not seem intimidated. Willy possibly doesn’t know how to be intimidated, Mitch thinks, and loves it about him. He loves a lot of things about Willy. Stuff bounces off him, it seems like, and the guy’s fucking _hilarious_ , and he makes Matts smile – for real smile, not the little fake one he does with most people – and that by itself’d be enough to make Mitch like him, even without everything else. 

It just works, chips falling into place so that it feels like nothing to go from chatting while getting a morning coffee to piled up on the couch, yelling at the Bolts’ goalie like they’ve been doing it all their lives. 

“Shouldn’t have counted,” Auston gripes , ‘cause he’s a million times more invested in the Leafs than he likes to pretend, while Willy cusses out the refs, watching from between his fingers. Shootout’s 2-1 for Toronto now, van Riemsdyk lining up to take their last shot; and Mitch was wrong earlier, he’s not going to have a heart attack, he’s going to have, like, eight consecutive ones.

“Shootouts are _evil_ ,” he says emphatically. “Cruel and unusual form of torture that should be banned by the Geneva convention.”

“Preach it, girlfriend,” Willy says absently, and Mitch doesn’t have to look at Matts to know he’s rolling his eyes, hard, even though weirder shit by _far_ has left Willy’s mouth in the last two months. It’s either a bilingual thing or a him thing. Mitch hasn’t decided.

They all go quiet when JVR gets his stick on the puck, racing down the ice, Mitch mumbling without really meaning to, “Come on get a goal get a goal get a- Yes!”

The puck slides into the back of the net, an absolute beauty of a shot, and Mitch whoops, springs out of his weird stress-crouch. Willy’s on his feet too, catches him and gives him a noogie, hollering in his ear like they just won a cup while Matts laughs and pretends like he didn’t jump out of his seat, same as them, when the puck went into the net. 

Mitch figures he must’ve been, like, Mother Teresa or someone in a past life, to deserve this.

\-------

Mitch is fishing in his backpack to try and find his transit card when he gets to the front of the line. Willy perks right up when he sees it’s him, which is a nice ego boost, or would be, if Mitch wasn’t currently dealing with the very real possibility of having to sprint to work ‘cause he can’t get on the train.

“Morning, sunshine,” Willy says, bright, before his coworker can even ask what Mitch wants, and starts making Mitch’s usual without asking.

“Hey,” Mitch says, still searching in his bag. “Busy?” He grins at the wry look that earns from Will – the Starbucks is packed solid, everyone in this building and the others around fueling up before work or school or whatever.

“Nah, just hanging out,” Willy quips, ignoring the vaguely scandalized ‘tsk’ from the guy behind Mitch in line. Professionalism is a planet that Willy’s never visited, Mitch doesn’t think. It’s a different solar system.

“Sounds fun.” Mitch finally locates his card – buried under an old granola bar and what feels like a used tissue right at the bottom of his bag, left from the last time he cleaned it in, like, senior year of high school – and holds it up, triumphant. The girl at the register doesn’t look impressed, so he holds the card in his mouth and switches to searching for his wallet, which is fortunately easier to find.

“What’re you doing today?” Willy asks, all conversational, taking his time with the coffee even though the lineup is threatening to wind out the door.

Mitch hands over the cost of his drink, running through his calendar in his head – it’s a busier week than usual, an overnighter to cover the Buds’ Saturday game in Montreal, some Hometown Hockey feature for Nazem Kadri. Today, though-

“Se-” He takes the transit card out of his mouth so he can talk properly. “Sens’re in town, I’m talking with Karlsson. Some ‘Battle of Ontario’ hype piece. Hey,” he perks up with a sudden idea, accepting his change and dropping the lot into the tip jar. “Hey, how do you say ‘nice goal last night’ in Swedish?” 

“ _Sug en grodkuk_ ,” Will says without hesitating, and Mitch promptly starts repeating the phrase over and over to himself.

“ _Sug en grodkuk_ ,” he mutters, testing; then, once he thinks he’s got it, at a normal volume. “ _Sug en grodkuk_!” Willy’s smiling, like he’s really proud. Mitch is baller at languages, probably. He holds his hand out for a fist bump. “Thanks, dude. I’m international as _fuck_.”

“Yeah you are.” Willy taps his knuckles to Mitch’s and passes him his drink. Mitch can feel Will’s eyes on him as he looks down at the sleeve for his drawing, waiting for his reaction.

“Aw,” Mitch says, pleased. It’s a little flower today, leaves and all. Getting artsy with it. “Pretty.”

“Yeah,” Willy says, and he gets this shit-eating grin, like he knows he’s about to say something groan-worthy. “You are.” Mitch laughs, and Willy’s smile softens into something more sincere. It’s Mitch’s favourite one of his smiles, probably. “That one was good, right?”

“Very smooth,” Mitch agrees. “Lacking in subtlety, maybe, just a little.”

“I’ll be subtle tomorrow,” Willy promises before finally starting on the next order, and Mitch is still smiling when he leaves, a bounce in his step as he heads to the bus stop.

They’re really chill about the whole flirting thing.

He’s not sure it even counts as flirting anymore, really, because he knows there’s no, like, intent behind it. No one’s a bigger fan of his and Matts’ relationship than Willy, ‘cause he keeps sending those ‘wholesome memes’ to their groupchat, commenting #baegoals whenever Matts posts a selfie with Mitch on insta. It’s really lame, embarrassing in a nice way. Like a personal cheerleader who also takes part in couch cuddles, sometimes.

The coffee thing might still be flirting, just by definition. Mitch isn’t sure what else he’d call it.

It’s chill.

The interview goes well. Karlsson gives him some weird looks when he tries to speak Swedish, but Mitch chalks it up to his work-in-progress accent, and the Leafs pull off the W; then _kaffe=coffee_ is written on his cup when Matts is driving him to the airport the next morning, so he thinks he can call the whole thing a win.

\-------

He almost trips, when he feels Matts’ hand on his elbow. Does jump, noticeably and for no good reason – they’re out jogging, the streets relatively quiet at this time of the morning. It’s good weather for a run, a little snow on the grass but the sidewalks mostly clear, the temperature hovering somewhere around the freezing mark.

“Woah,” Auston says, kind of grinning at Mitch’s reaction. He’s ridiculously bundled up, gloves and thick socks the way he’s been since the first day of fall. “You need a breather?”

“No,” Mitch says, too fast. He can feel Auston staring at him, the beginnings of concern, so he picks up the pace, forces him to concentrate to keep up. “Just got distracted, sorry.”

And that-

That’s the truth, at least.

It’s stupid, to be this shaken by a dream. Shaken, Hashtag-Shook, whatever. He’s not a little kid, and it wasn’t a nightmare. _Definitely not a nightmare_ , the little voice in his head reminds him, and Mitch blinks, hard.

It’s not like it’s the first time he’s had a sex dream. First time involving Willy, sure, and first time involving three people, and, okay, first time he had to squirm out from under Matts’ arm and go jerk off, too embarrassed to really enjoy it, but- it’s not like he was controlling it. Not like it’s never happened to either of them before. Matts once woke up all freaked, took half an hour to admit he’d had a dream about having weird emotional sex with Connor McDavid; Mitch laughed so hard he had to get out of bed and run to the bathroom so he wouldn’t piss himself. They’re way past being shy about this stuff.

Something about this one won’t get out of Mitch’s head, anyways.

He thinks the whole thing might’ve been ‘cause Willy talked about his little siblings yesterday. That sounds kind of fucked up, but is actually pretty reasonable, ‘cause Will’s always good-looking – like, obviously, guy’s a fucking renaissance sculpture – but the look on his face when he’s talking about his family is a different thing entirely. Caring about stuff suits him.

Mitch isn’t sure if Willy knows that Mitch knows who his family is. It wasn’t hard to figure out, because knowing about hockey shit’s Mitch’s literal job, and he doesn’t think Will is hiding the fact that he’s Michael Nylander’s son, exactly. He also doesn’t say anything about it, though, so Mitch doesn’t either. He can’t blame him for not wanting to share. It’s probably not the easiest thing in the world, having two pro hockey players in the family.

Willy wants to impress his dad so bad, more than Mitch thinks he’s even aware of. It tugs at something in Mitch’s chest, makes him want give him a patented Marner Hug. He thought that was the extent of it, just being a good friend, except-

The fucking dream won’t get out of his head. 

Everything is too much, suddenly, Auston’s footsteps on the pavement next to him, Willy back at home waiting to wave at them while they’re jogging past, the picture in Mitch’s head of the two of them bent over him, a mess of limbs and mouths. It’s a punch to the gut, this awful guilt in his stomach – what’s he _doing_ , what the fuck, Marner – even though nothing happened, even though he can’t stop thinking it-

“Hold on,” he gets out, and steps off the path, crouches down to pretend to tie a shoelace. His head’s spinning.

“Marns,” Auston says, and he’s definitely worried, now, but Mitch shakes his head, keeps his eyes on his runners.

“It’s fine,” he says. He’s always been a good liar. “Just gotta fix this.”

“Okay,” Auston says, and he sounds doubtful, but he must be at least a little convinced, because he feels good enough to say, “Hurry, though. It’s fucking freezing.” It actually makes Mitch feel a little better, Matts complaining about the cold like he’s been doing as long as Mitch has known him, reliable and sure as anything.

Mitch double knots his shoelace, waits for the butterflies in his stomach to chill the fuck out. When he’s brave enough to look up he gets an eyeful of Matts’ ass in his jogging pants. It’s somehow weirdly calming, like, internal crises aside, he’s here and he’s running with his amazing boyfriend and his amazing boyfriend’s amazing butt. Shit can’t be that bad.

Auston’s still watching him, a little uncertain, so Mitch grins up at him. “I’m a big fan of your ass in those leggings, have I ever told you that?”

“Once or twice,” Auston deadpans, but he kind of adjusts how he’s standing, showing off a little. It’s a dumb little moment. Mitch’s heart swells, anyways, entirely without his permission.

“Well, I am,” he says, instead of any of the cheesy shit he’s thinking. “A fan, I mean. It’s wonderful.”

“Quit objectifying me,” Auston says, but he offers a gloved hand to help Mitch up, rubs his thumb across his wrist, a silent ‘I’m here’.

“’kay,” Mitch agrees, easily enough, sways in a little closer to him. “You’re blushing, by the way.”

“It’s the cold,” Auston says, and promptly changes the subject, which- liar. “Race you home?”

“You know I’m gonna win, babe,” Mitch says, except it’s more like “you know I’m gonna win, b-” because Matts takes off at a run, leaving Mitch behind him, spluttering.

“Cheater!” Mitch yells after him, and a laugh forces its way out, surprised. He only manages to move because he’s competitive as shit, always has been, enough to sprint after Matts ‘til they’re side by side again, shoving at each other and laughing.

They’re okay. Mitch is okay. They get home without any more incidents, and he doesn’t think about the dream anymore, doesn’t let himself.

And the Willy thing isn’t a thing, except for when it is.

\-------

Matts passed out maybe twenty minutes ago, head in Mitch’s lap, after staying up ‘til six AM working on a project. Least he waited for a bed, Mitch figures. He’s heavy, dead weight, but Mitch doesn’t move, just sort of absently pets his hair. Auston looks younger when he’s asleep, jaw all slack.

“Hey,” Willy says from his perch on the other end of the bed, and turns his phone around so Mitch can see the screen. “Is she hot or is this just a good angle?”

Mitch narrows his eyes at the image on the screen. It’s a selfie, a girl with her hair pulled back, smiling all flirty at the camera. “Both, I think.” he decides, and Willy nods like that was the right answer, does something complicated on his screen then grins.

“Match,” he says, the way he’s been doing intermittently since he got here, for this girl and the redhead and the guy with a man bun. Mitch isn’t sure what the common denominator is, there. He’s also not sure how Willy ended up in his bed. Tonight is made of questions.

He nudges Willy’s thigh with his toe, careful not to jostle Auston too much. “What’s your type?” he asks, curious, ‘cause one answer is better than zero. “Other than me, I mean.”

Willy flips him off, eyes still on his phone. His hair’s falling in his face, all swoopy. It’s pretty unfair. “I don’t think I have one. Just someone I like. Fun.”

“So search fun people, then. Streamline that shit.” Mitch says, ‘cause it seems kind of obvious, and then he gets distracted by the little freckle right on the edge of Matts’ jaw, so it takes him a few seconds to realize that Willy’s looking at him kind of funny. “What?”

“Do you, like. Not know how Tinder works?”

Mitch shrugs, traces the line of Matts’ jaw, to the freckle and back. It’s cute. “I mean. I’ve been with my boyfriend since we were literal teenagers, so. No?” 

Willy kind of scoffs, but it’s this fond thing, and he clambers across the bed, flops down next to Mitch and holds out his phone. “You swipe right if you like them, left if you don’t. If you both swipe right, it’s a match.” He explains it real simple, matter-of-fact, but Mitch frowns.

“Just from pictures?” 

“That’s how it is in real life.”

“It’s not.”

“Come on,” Willy sort-of laughs, and Mitch gets the impression that he doesn’t exactly believe him. It bothers him more than it should. “You didn’t talk to me at work ‘cause you liked my _personality_.”

“I did,” Mitch says, because it’s the actual truth. “I do.”

It hangs there, heavy, a second too long. Willy’s looking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time, and it’s too close, somehow, so Mitch grabs the phone, swipes right on the first profile he sees. “So you match, then what?”

If Willy notices he’s changing the subject, he doesn’t comment on it. “Then you talk,” he says. “Then you hook up or go on a date or something. Mostly hooking up.”

In the time Mitch has been holding the phone, Willy’s already gotten three matches. He wonders what he would’ve done if he matched with Matts on Tinder. Probably would’ve looked a lot cooler than he did in their 8:30 AM lecture, that’s for sure. He scrolls through a couple more profiles. “Modern dating is so _weird_ ,” he says, fascinated, and Willy snatches his phone back, laughs. 

“Yes, thank you, grandpa, I forgot you’ve been married for sixty years.” 

Mitch does his best old man voice. “That’s sixty-five, sonny, have some respect.”

“Gross,” Willy laughs. They’re gonna wake Matts, if the bed keeps shaking like this. “How old are you, to be married that long?”

“Old as balls,” Mitch says, with great relish.

“Old as balls,” Willy echoes, that affectionately judgey way he has, and for a few moments they just lie there. It’s this companionable kind of silence, peaceful, and their eyes meet for just a second before Will stretches and rolls to his feet, pocketing his phone. It feels deliberate. “Okay, I should get home.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Mitch says, ‘cause he’s mannerly as fuck. “Just a sec.” He shifts where he’s sitting, shakes Matts’ shoulder, really gentle. “Matty,” he says, and Auston blinks a bunch of times, slow and heavy.

“Mmph,” he says, and Mitch smiles without really meaning to.

“I gotta get up,” he says, soft. “Go brush your teeth, you’ll hate yourself in the morning.”

Auston yawns, but rolls out of Mitch’s lap obligingly. His eyes’re still closed. Willy leans in to rustle his hair. “Night, Matts.”

“Night,” Auston grunts, still mostly asleep.

There’s something in the air that Mitch can’t quite name, something new and familiar at the same time. It lingers while he watches Willy disappear into the elevator, while he’s walking back towards the bedroom. He can hear the water from the sink going when he gets close, so he veers off, wanders into the bathroom. Auston’s standing in front of the mirror, brushing his teeth. Perks up a little when he sees Mitch.

“Hey, lazy,” Mitch teases, heaving himself up to sit on the counter.

“Rude,” Auston says, only a little hard to understand, and Mitch grins, returns the toothpaste-filled smile Auston’s reflection gives him in the mirror. Gross and beautiful at the same time. Might just be the mood Mitch is in – everything’s tinged in gold, it feels like; warm and cozy as if the three of them are still all curled up in bed together, this little nugget of _good_ in his chest.

“I love making friends,” Mitch announces, and means it, really genuinely just means it. He’s happy, full-up in a way that he wants to hold onto forever.

Auston spits out a mouthful of toothpaste. His eyes are bright, like maybe he’s feeling the same. Mitch’d bet money he is. “Willy?”

“I mean,” Mitch says. “All friends. But he’s- yeah.” 

“Yeah,” Auston agrees, ‘cause they’ve never really needed words to get each other. Mitch watches him set his toothbrush in the little holder next to Mitch’s, careful, before crossing the distance between them, coming to stand between Mitch’s legs and lean his head on his shoulder. Mitch gets his arms around him and presses his face into his hair, breathes in the smell of his shampoo.

It takes a while for Matts to talk, muffled and sleepy against Mitch’s shirt. “I’m glad he’s ours.”

And Mitch likes the way that sounds. _Ours_.

\-------

It shouldn’t take as long as it does for him to notice.

Could be a world record, maybe. Mitchell Marner: World’s Most Clueless Person. He’s not, usually. This probably doesn’t count as normal circumstances, ‘cause it’s not so much one big thing – like, bam, moment of truth – as it is a bunch of little ones, nothing at all, by themselves.

Except then it’s December, right, and there’s a carton of soy milk in their fridge ‘cause Willy won’t drink the normal shit, and Mitch can say a solid dozen sentences in Swedish, and the three of them each have a set spot on the couch; and that’s not nothing anymore, he doesn’t think.

He’s not sure what’s going on in Matts’ head, or Will’s. Thinks he’s probably never been scared of anything like he’s scared of asking, fucking up whatever delicate ecosystem they’ve turned into.

Willy shows up at the apartment after his date, that Friday, and no one even pretends to be surprised.

“Hey,” Auston says, scooching onto his side of the couch when Willy trails Mitch into the living room. The TV’s low in the background, halfway through a rerun of American Ninja Warrior. “How’d it go with man bun?”

“You should get a man bun, babe,” Mitch teases, hurtling the back of the couch and landing hard. Auston rolls his eyes, tugs Mitch’s feet back into his lap so he can get comfy, and doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Willy sinks onto the couch, leans his head right back and stares at the ceiling. His voice is light, but Mitch knows him well enough to hear something off, straight away. “He said I wasn’t the boyfriend type.” 

It takes Mitch a second to respond, he’s so mad so suddenly. “He’s wrong.” Man bun is, evidently, a fucking dick, which maybe could have been predicted from the fact that the dude’s got a man bun, but- _ugh_. ‘The boyfriend type’, what does that even _mean_? “Wrong and bad and probably a supervillain, I bet.”

“The Joker. Doc Oc,” Auston agrees, and waggles his fingers like tentacles. It makes Willy laugh, but it’s over too quick, more an exhale than anything else.

“Nah, he’s right.”

Mitch sits up, incredulous. “If you want to be a boyfriend, you’re the boyfriend type. That’s literally how it works.”

Willy shifts where he’s sitting, looks torn between laughing again and booking it. Mitch doesn’t think he’s ever seen him shaken like this, wishes he wasn’t, now. It’s- It’s wrong.

He’s still not meeting Mitch’s eyes, still sounds casual, which is maybe the worst part. “You guys don’t- you think too good, about me. I’m kind of a fuckup.” It comes out of nowhere, a little, but rolls too easy off his tongue, like it’s been waiting to come out.

Matts speaks before Mitch can, firm. “You’re not.”

Willy looks over Mitch’s head at Auston, and his jaw tightens. “I am.” Then, before Auston can protest, “My dad used to be in the NHL. My little brother, Alex, he went eighth overall. Sabres. I work at Starbucks.”

There’s a second of silence, Auston stunned, Mitch pretending to be. It sounds bad, when Willy puts it like that.

“Jeez,” Auston says; and, yeah, that about sums it up. There’s recognition dawning on his face, and Mitch can see him making the connection between Willy and the Swedish kid they’ve watched during Sabres games.

Willy keeps talking. Mitch gets the impression he doesn’t want to stop. “I quit when I was seventeen. I hated getting _compared_ all the time.”

“Were you good?” Mitch asks it mostly without thinking, and it turns out to be the right thing, because Willy smiles, wistful but real, almost proud.

“Really good.”

Mitch returns his grin, more relieved to see it than he should be. “I played ‘til grade eight,” he offers. “Triple A.”

Willy tilts his head, questioning. “Why’d you stop?” 

Mitch shrugs, feels Matts’ eyes on him along with Willy’s. “Really bad concussion. It freaked my mom out. Turns out weighing forty pounds less than everyone else is unsafe. Who knew?” He does little air quotes when he says ‘unsafe’, which gets a smile out of both of the others like he knew it would. 

Willy nods over at Matts, asks, “You ever played?”, and Mitch lets himself imagine it, some universe where the three of them played and didn’t stop. Maybe up against each other at tournaments; maybe _with_ each other, even though the odds of them all playing on the same team’d be a million to one. The thought makes him grin, anyhow.

“Nah,” Auston says. “I was always more of a baseball guy.” 

“Figures,” Willy says, and it’s a chirp, or it’s trying real hard to be.

Mitch leans over and hugs him, hard.

It’s the first time he’s hugged Willy. It’s weird that it’s taken him this long, ‘cause cuddles are to Mitch like oxygen is to most humans, but this is where the whole ‘not normal circumstances’ thing comes in. He’s been, very consciously- well, not restrained, really, because he doesn’t think he could be that if he tried, but. He’s always aware that this whole thing started because Willy was into him. And Willy’s never, ever tried anything, and wouldn’t, but it still wouldn’t be fair to anyone. Except-

He’s Mitch’s friend, and he’s sad. So Mitch hugs him, and feels Willy relax against him almost right away, and knows he made the right call.

“I don’t think you’re a fuckup,” he says, right into Willy’s collarbone. “I think you’re the opposite of a fuckup.” He pokes at Willy’s stomach, then, playful, ‘cause lightening the mood is possibly the recurring plotline of Mitch’s entire life. “Hey, what’s ‘you aren’t a fuckup’ in Swedish?” 

“ _Jag har en liten kuk_ ,” Will translates, after a second. His arms are up by Mitch’s back.

“ _Jag har en liten kuk_ ,” Mitch mimics, slow. The sounds feel awkward in his mouth. “That right?”

He can hear Willy smiling, maybe a little in spite of himself. “You’re a natural, Mitchy.” 

“That I am,” Mitch agrees, and is somehow surprised and not even a little surprised, all at once, when he feels Matts scooting closer, up against his back. Auston leans his head on top of Willy’s, drapes an arm across Mitch’s waist so he’s holding on to them both. The couch is definitely too small for the three of them clustered together like this. No one moves.

No one mentions Willy’s date, either. Mitch is relieved about that, just a little, because it means he doesn’t have to pretend not to be happy it didn’t work out.

It’s an awful thing to feel, probably. Not fair of him, he knows that.

Feels it, anyways.

And it’s really, really not nothing.

\-------

Auston almost trips and drops Mitch when they’re going through the doorway to their room, swaying under their combined weight. His own fault, trying to do the carrying Mitch off to bed thing like he’s the hero in one of the romance novels Mitch’s mom pretends not to read.

Mitch drops his overnight bag at their feet. It’s full of laundry, stuff from the four day roadie he accompanied the team on, but he’s got more pressing shit on his mind, tightens his legs around Matts’ waist. “Don’t drop me,” he orders, without fully pulling back from their kiss.

“I would never,” Auston says, serious; only before Mitch can melt at how romantic that was, Matts all but tosses him onto the bed, sets the mattress creaking and half their pillows tumbling onto the floor while he’s at it.

“Hey!” Mitch chides, flat on his back, laughing too hard for it to carry any kind of weight.

“Didn’t drop you,” Auston says, all innocent, smirking. Mitch falls in love with him a little every time he’s like this, all joking and happy and easy.

“Oh, now he’s a fucking comedian,” Mitch teases, bouncing onto his knees and crawling down the bed so he can tug at Matts’ t-shirt, pull him down for another kiss that deepens quick. Mitch pulls at Auston’s shirt again and he gets the message, pulling it over his head in one fluid movement. He grins, kind of cocky, when Mitch splays a hand across his chest, possessive.

“Enjoying the view?”

“I missed you,” Mitch says, earnest, and Auston looks unbearably fond, leans in to brush their noses. It’s Mitch’s gesture, stolen or picked up by accident after years and years, and the sight of him doing it is enough that Mitch has to kiss him again, pull him down so Matts is bracketed over him on the bed.

They take their time, this leisurely making out, getting rid of their clothes one piece at a time and laughing when Mitch gets stuck in his inside-out t-shirt. He’s got his hands roaming up and down Matts’ body, his legs up by his waist; the two of them pushing up against each other, this slow grind that’s working its way into something, and then, and then-

There’s a knock at the door. 

“You’re kidding me,” Mitch breathes, and Auston shakes his head against him.

“Wrong number,” he says, and his voice is all low, eyes shut, so Mitch laughs and loses himself in Matts’ mouth. And then the knocking starts up again, harder, and doesn’t stop.

“Fuck,” Auston curses, after maybe a minute of that. “I’ll be right back.”

Mitch groans, but lies back, and Auston presses a kiss to his bare stomach before getting up, pulling on his sweats from the floor while he walks out without bothering with a shirt.

He lies there, not quite uncomfortably hard. Mostly just eager. He listens to Matts’ footsteps, then the door clicking open, then a voice that he immediately recognizes as Willy’s.

Of course, it’s Willy.

Him and Matts talk, hushed, for a couple of seconds, and Mitch is kind of daydreaming, can’t really hear much of anything until-

“Holy- Were you two about to _fuck_?”

And Willy sounds so positively gleeful, a bright laugh following his words; and Mitch can practically see Auston blushing from here, and he can’t help but hug a pillow to his chest, smiling all big at the ceiling. It’s so, so dumb. 

He’s never really been the patient type, so when a couple more minutes have passed, he gets up, grabs Matts’ t-shirt from the floor – it’s long enough on him that Willy won’t see anything traumatizing – and heads towards their voices, stops by the corner where he can see the front entrance.

“You totally were,” Willy’s saying, laughing, propped up in the doorway while Auston’s lingering by the inside wall, his back to Mitch, the barest hint of his hipbone visible above the waist of his sweatpants. Mitch can see him blushing from here.

“You’re so embarrassing.” 

“Prude,” Willy teases, getting into Auston’s space and fake-punching him in the ribs a bunch of times, playful. “Nah, get it, dude.”

“Shut up,” Matts returns the punches, traps Willy in a headlock, but he’s laughing too. It sounds like it’s being pulled out of him, this loud, kind of ugly thing, completely unselfconscious like he almost never is in front of anyone but Mitch.

It’s just the best thing Mitch has ever heard, probably. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands like that, in Auston’s old Bon Jovi t-shirt, watching the two of them pressed right up close, play fighting like little kids, getting halfway through chirps ‘cause they’re laughing too hard to finish their sentences. It’s like- this is _it_ , this is _his_ , the two of them here-

And then Auston meets his eyes.

He all but yelps, lets go of Will so quick he teeters and has to catch himself on the doorframe.

“Hey,” Willy complains, fixing his hair, still smiling. “What’re- Marns.” His eyes widen, and being subtle has never really been Willy’s thing, Mitch knows, but- the way Willy looks at him just then, at his bare legs, the hem of his shirt; his mouth falls open a little.

Mitch forces himself to tear his gaze away from Willy to look at Auston. He’s not sure what he’s trying to find, but it doesn’t matter, ‘cause Auston’s staring back at him, looks horrified enough to break Mitch’s heart a little.

Willy coughs. “They, um. Gave me a bunch of messed up cookies. At work.”

“Oh,” Mitch says. Matts is holding the bag, this little paper thing. “Thanks, for those.” 

“Yeah, you know. Sharing is caring,” Willy says, and Auston does this choked little sound, and now all three of them are so bright red they could’ve just gotten off the beach.

Willy’s eyes are bugging out. “I didn’t mean it like-”

“No, yeah,” Mitch interrupts, fast as he can, because there’s probably no way Willy could finish that sentence that he wants to hear. “I mean. Thanks again.”

“Yeah,” Willy says, and almost trips over the shoe rack, he tries to book it so fast. “So, that’s all, I’m going to go, have fun, kids.” 

And it’d be _so_ easy to chirp him for that, if Mitch’s brain was anything but static and screaming. It isn’t, though, at the moment, so he just watches Willy sprint out of the apartment, bumping into the doorframe on his way out, and then Mitch and Auston are left alone.

It’s utterly silent, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. Auston’s still standing there frozen in the middle of the hall, holding the bag of cookies with both hands. Mitch stares at him. He stares back, completely stricken, lost enough that Mitch is walking towards him before he’s even aware of doing it.

“Hey,” he says, and reaches up to cup Auston’s jaw. “Hey, it’s okay.” 

Auston leans into his touch like he wants to hide. Mitch’s heart is beating loud in his ears.

“Sorry,” Auston says, tiny, and Mitch shakes his head.

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” They’re almost whispering, face-to-face.

Mitch doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry or run around the block a couple of times. He feels antsy, teetering on the edge of something he’s not sure he wants to put into words, and it feels huge; not fully bad or good, not fully anything. It seems like longer than it’s been, since they were in a pile on the bed, giggling into each other’s mouths. 

“Can I just-”

“What?”

“-kiss you,” Auston finishes, a little hoarse. “Please?”

“You never have to ask,” Mitch says, repeats his own words back to him and still manages to be surprised at the intensity with which Auston leans down to catch his lips; would be more surprised if he didn’t kiss back just as hard, almost instantly.

It’s zero to a hundred, just like that, this desperate fumbling with hands and clothes, hardly stopping for breath. Mitch feels Auston turn them towards the bedroom, shakes his head.

“Here,” he says, and Auston can maybe tell that this is important, even if neither of them knows why, because he just nods, eyes dark, kisses Mitch again until he’s backed up against the wall.

And it’s a decent probability that weirdly intense wall sex isn’t a real substitute for sitting and talking shit through. They do it, anyways, Auston getting a hand around Mitch, breathing out in shallow little gasps when Mitch does the same. They haven’t done anything like this since Auston’s cousin’s wedding a couple years ago, drunk on champagne and giggling the whole time, Matts losing his balance and falling into the dresser in their hotel room so he woke up with a huge bruise on his ribs. They laughed about it, after. No one’s laughing, this time.

It’s not particularly comforting, but Mitch isn’t sure it’s supposed to be; just closes his eyes and feels the length of Matts’ body up against his, the wall cool at his back, a million sensations that are overwhelming and everything and not enough to make him stop thinking.

There’s a lot of stuff Mitch knows, for sure.

He knows he’s- not hot, really, except at a few specific angles, because he never really grew out of his lanky phase and his eyes go all crinkly when he smiles too big; but he knows there’s something about him that people are into. Not all people, not even close, but enough. Matts.

Willy.

He knows Willy was checking him out, earlier, because Mitch isn’t blind or stupid or self-deprecating enough to pretend to be either. Knows Auston was watching Willy watching him. And- it’s been _eight years_. Mitch knows Matts like he knows himself, knows what Matts looks like when he loves someone, ‘cause Mitch has been at the other end of that look since their first date and every day since, and that’s not bragging, that’s a fact. Knows that he got that look again tonight, is getting it right now.

Knows Willy did, too.

Not just from Matts.

“I love you,” Auston says, breathless and right up close, and Mitch kisses him, hard, ‘cause that, at least, has never been a question.

\-------

They do talk about it, after. They didn’t make it through eight years by not talking. It’s still harder than it has any right to be to start the conversation when they’re lying side by side that night, facing each other.

Mitch reaches out, tangles his fingers with Auston’s under the covers. Takes a deep breath. “You want to kiss Willy, right?” 

And, like, he’s asking, but it’s not really a question. They both know that, Mitch figures, just like they both know that him asking is him giving them both a way out. It’s a thing, there’s no denying that anymore, but it doesn’t- he’s not going to force Matts to make it a _thing_ -thing. He can say no and Mitch’ll leave it, no questions asked.

Matts nods. Doesn’t take his eyes off of Mitch.

Mitch isn’t sure what he was expecting to feel. It’s mostly just relief, this quiet something inside of him. Like- it’s out there. It’s real. He exhales, small, and Auston squeezes his hand. 

“Are you mad?” 

“No,” Mitch says, firm. “No, I think I want to as well.” He says it matter-of-fact, simple, and Matts kind of relaxes, because it _is_ simple, Mitch thinks. They’ve always been pretty much on the same wavelength. “Are _you_ mad?”

“That’d be pretty unfair,” Auston points out, and Mitch bites his lip.

“It’s not just a kissing thing, though,” he says, holding Auston’s gaze.

“No, I know.” Matts says. He doesn’t sound mad. Not mad at all. “Me neither.”

Mitch’s stomach does a somersault, at that, and Auston can maybe tell, because he tugs Mitch into a hug. Mitch breathes out, long and shaky, and hides his face against Auston’s chest. Outside, a siren goes by, fades into the sound of traffic. Neither of them moves. Mitch listens to Auston’s heartbeat, steady and slow, a constant.

Matts’ lips brush his temple. “Sorry,” Auston says again, and Mitch can’t help the half-laugh, half-sigh that escapes him, at that.

“Stop saying that,” he says. “This isn’t- it’s not an apology kind of thing, okay?” He waits, then, when Auston still doesn’t respond, pulls back to look him in the eyes: “Okay?”

“Okay,” Auston says, and Mitch mostly believes him, even if he still sounds a little uncertain.

“It’s like- I don’t love you less.” It feels wrong even having to say it, like it’s even a possibility. “I mean, I’d _never_ -” 

“I know,” Auston says, propping himself up on an elbow. “You don’t have to-”

“I do, though,” Mitch says, and he doesn’t think he could stop talking if he wanted to, now, the words pouring out of him. “’cause you’re- It’s not even just, like, being into him, is the thing. It’s the three of us, the way we all are, I think I’m in love with that. Like, it’s not separate from you, it’s all just mushed together like a- a fucking- this feelings gum wad.”

“Thought you were supposed to be the one who’s good with words,” Auston says, so straight-faced it takes Mitch a second to get that he’s teasing. The laugh that slips out when he does is as real as it’s ever been, and this time it’s him who pulls Auston into a hug, tight.

It’s like an actual literal weight off of his shoulders, like he didn’t realize how heavy the not-lying was weighing him down until it wasn’t anymore.

Auston rubs a hand up and down Mitch’s back, returns his smile when they break apart.

Mitch takes his hand again, more certain, this time. “What’s our play, here?”

Auston seems to get that Mitch needs him to be in charge right now, because he doesn’t do the whole non-verbal thing. Just thinks about it for a few seconds then says, slow, “Well. The way I see it, we talked about it. That’s good, right?”

Mitch nods. “Right.”

“So, there’s no, like. Hidden shit.” He waves his free hand. “It’s all out there. We’re both into Willy, and we’re both into each other. So we can leave it and go on doing what we’re doing, and that’s- it’s okay, because we both know.” 

“Yeah,” Mitch says, and he swears to god it’s not disappointment, that feeling in his stomach, because he has Matts, his actual fucking once-in-a-lifetime soulmate, and anything more than that would be sickeningly greedy. So it’s not disappointment. It’s maybe something close.

Auston drums his fingers on Mitch’s stomach, thoughtful. “Or,” he says, and waits ‘til Mitch meets his eyes before continuing, the tiniest little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “We can see if he likes us back and have a ridiculously awesome threesome and all be boyfriends.”

He says it real casual, but by the end of the sentence, he’s full-on-smiling, and doesn’t stop when it finally clicks in Mitch’s head and he leans forward to kiss him, happy and overwhelmed and so much of everything. 

“I love you,” Mitch says when he can talk, smiling so huge he probably looks out of his mind. “I- Babe, I’m so- I love you. This is going to be- I love you, fuck.” He presses kisses all along the bridge Auston’s nose and cheeks, sloppy when Auston shakes with laughter.

“I love you too,” he says, flushed under Mitch’s lips, _giggling_ , and Mitch- god, he’s so in love with this guy. He’s so in love with both of them. Matts, and Willy, and he’s allowed to think it, now-

He gets maybe five minutes of sleep the whole night. His whole brain is humming with excitement and promise and just this crazy-huge kind of love, so much he can feel it, thinks he might actually explode with it. And that’s saying something, honestly, because Mitch loves like it’s his _job_.

\-------

It’s weird how normal things stay. Mitch half expects the sky to be green when he goes outside the next day, but the world’s still the same as it’s always been, so he gets his Starbucks and takes the chirps from Willy about almost walking in on them banging and learns his Swedish word of the day before heading off to the Leafs’ practice rink like always.

Matts probably has the right idea, to not rush stuff. They don’t know how Willy feels about them, like, collectively or romantically or whatever. It’s not exactly familiar territory, not for either of them. Add to that the fact that Willy’s far enough out of their combined league that he may as well be in a different galaxy, and it makes sense to keep stuff chill.

Mitch hugs Willy, now. It feels dumb that it took this long, in retrospect, ‘cause Willy turns into a fucking lapdog the second Mitch gets a hand on him, and Auston gets this sappy, stupid-in-love look on his face whenever he sees them together, and Mitch spends more than a little time marvelling at how _incredibly_ slow he was to realize this, holy shit.

It feels like a step. He’s not sure where, but-

It’s something.

“Need a hand?”

Mitch glances over his shoulder, grins at the sight of Willy jogging towards him. “You’re a beauty, Will,” he says. He’s weighed down with almost a dozen grocery bags, last-minute shopping for ingredients for dinner. The store was brutal tonight, the typical night before Christmas rush of guys buying gifts and stressed moms bickering over the last jar of cranberry sauce.

Willy’s got his parka on over his work pants, like he was about to head for home, but he takes half the bags from Mitch, trails him over to the staircase and holds open the heavy metal door while Mitch starts the trek upstairs.

“You stocking up for hibernation?” he asks, and Mitch rolls his eyes.

“Matts is getting his family from the airport,” he explains. “My parents are driving down for dinner tomorrow. Eight people, total.” He’s still not sure how they’re going to fit, because the kitchen table is puny and the dining room is full of all of Matts’ tablets and design books, but they’ll figure it out.

Willy snorts, a couple steps down. “You guys go all out, huh? The whole family thing?” 

Mitch nods, easy. “Our parents love each other, it’s ridiculous. I swear my mom’s been asking when we’re getting married since we were, like, nineteen.”

“Oh yeah, you two met in college, right?”

“He was _so_ cool, Will,” Mitch says, because Matts was, sitting there all calm and confident, big enough that he looked like he could probably bench press Mitch, probably while shirtless and sweaty in, like, an artful sort of way. That last part was probably because eighteen year old Mitch weighed a hundred and thirty pounds and had a super active imagination. Point is, Auston was _spectacular._

Mitch doesn’t tell Willy the bench pressing part. He has some dignity left. “First time we talked, I told him my name was Meetch, that’s how nervous I was. Like, how fucking lame?” 

Willy laughs while they round the corner to the next flight of stairs. It’s hot inside, with all their winter shit still on. “Nah, it’s sweet. Very lame. But sweet.”

“Shut up,” Mitch makes a face at him, fond, hops the next step and nearly drops the bag with the eggs. God forbid. 

He doesn’t notice Willy’s stopped walking ‘til he’s maybe seven stairs up, when he turns around and sees him standing there, staring at Mitch and his grocery bags, sort of vaguely bemused.

“What?” Mitch asks.

Willy shakes his head, kind of laughs. Still looks a little taken aback. “You two are weird, you know that?”

“Um.”

Willy takes a step closer, just one, leans on the railing. “You’re both twenty-six year old dudes, living in the city, and you’re all, like. Committed. Being all domestic, hosting Christmas with both your families. You realize how insane that is, right?”

It’s not the first time someone’s said something like that, to Mitch. He gets that him and Matts aren’t exactly the norm, clued into it the first time he told someone about how they met and got ‘aw’ for a response.

“I dunno,” Mitch hedges, lingering on his step. “When you know, you know, right?”

Willy holds his gaze a second too long, and there’s something there that Mitch can’t put a finger on. He’d drop the groceries and run down the steps and kiss him, maybe, if he and Matts hadn’t agreed to let Willy take the lead on this one. They did, though, so he adjusts his grip on his bags, takes the next steps two at a time.

After a second, he hears Willy follow him, and the rest of the conversation is easier, dumb bantering and small talk until they’re at the apartment.

Mitch dumps his bags on the ground, rifles through his backpack for the key.

“How about you?” he asks, conversational. “Flying back to Sweden, I guess?”

“Ah, doubt it.” Willy says, kind of jokey, kind of sad. Mitch doesn’t think he’s supposed to notice the sad part. 

He frowns. “But you have somewhere to be for the holidays, right? Like. Your family’s coming here, or something?”

“I mean,” Willy says, a little uncomfortably. “We’re in four different countries. Not really worth the trouble to coordinate for one day.” The look on Mitch’s face must be exactly as horrified as he feels, then, because Willy laughs. “Your face, Marns. I’m just happy to have the day off work, it really doesn’t matter. Don’t worry.”

And it’s that, the little ‘don’t worry’ tacked on at the end, as if it’s anything like convincing, that makes up Mitch’s mind.

“I’m not,” he says, finally finding the key and unlocking the door. “I am gonna need a list of any food allergies and dietary restrictions for when you’re having Christmas dinner with us, though.”

Willy’s eyebrows fly up. “Ah, you don’t have to-”

“Allergies and dietary restrictions,” Mitch interrupts, stubborn, and Willy shakes his head.

“I can’t come to your family thing.”

“Yeah, you can,” Mitch says, and puts a hand on Willy’s forearm when he sees him about to protest. “Say okay.”

Willy stares down at Mitch’s hand on him. Caves, like, so fast it’s kind of comical. “Okay,” he says. Didn’t even really put up a fight at all.

The taking it slow thing is harder some times than others.

Matts is going to be excited, when Mitch tells him. They’re going to have to figure out how to fit nine people in their apartment, sure, and also how to peel ten billion potatoes and fold out the sofabed they’ve never actually used, but they’ve made everything else work so far. That’s kind of what they do.

And it’s cheesy, maybe, too many Hallmark holiday movies showing on TLC; and it’s not the kind of phrase Mitch could put in one of his articles, but, screw it, he’s got a good feeling about this.

He’s fucking _pumped._

 

**iii.**

Contrary to popular belief, Will’s not entirely an asshole.

Sixty percent asshole, at the absolute maximum, and that’s pushing it, and _that’s_ only because he’s in love with his best friends.

It’s not a bad thing, necessarily, except for how he wants to throw up and die every time he thinks about the unfairness of it all. Like- biggest city in Canada, literal millions of people, and he falls for the two that are taken. By _each other_.

Will’s dealing with it. It’s okay if he has feelings, he figures, as long as he doesn’t do anything about them; so he uses Matts as a guinea pig for his coffee, tricks Mitchy into saying inappropriate shit in Swedish, and occasionally gets off to the thought of that time he walked in on them about to have sex, and it’s chill, he’s sixty-five percent asshole, max.

And then Marns invites him to Christmas dinner.

\-------

One thing perfectly clear, here: Will’s not nervous. He doesn’t _get_ nervous. Going with the flow, riding the wave of life. That’s kind of his whole thing.

He’s just never done the whole ‘meeting the family’ thing before. Not that this is, like, Meeting the Family. Families. Whatever. It’s not that. It’s a pity invite, is what it is.

He really wants Matts and Marns’ parents to like him, anyways.

He texts his sisters to ask what he’s supposed to wear, except with the time difference none of them respond ‘til he’s already dressed, then one of them must tell Alex because _he_ starts sending a bunch of links to shit from pinterest; and the end result of everything is the entire contents of Willy’s closet on the floor and his 90s rap playlist blasting until the old lady he’s renting a room from starts banging on the ceiling with a broom and shouting at him in Portuguese.

He doesn’t miss his bus, at least.

He figures out pretty quickly that he shouldn’t have bothered worrying about what to wear, because Marns opens the door wearing the absolutely most horrifying knit sweater Will’s ever seen, patterned with maple leaves and snowflakes and all manner of overtly clashing designs. It’s offensive even to look at. 

“Wow,” Willy says, and Marns kind of preens, because of course he’d take that as a compliment.

“Right?” he says, proud, then looks at Willy, really looks at him, and his mouth drops open. “Did you _comb your hair_?” he gushes, delighted, and reaches up to run his fingers through it. Will regrets everything he’s ever done. “Aus, come see, Willy combed his hair-”

“No way.” Auston pokes his head out of the kitchen. He’s wearing an identical sweater, yarn leaves and all, and has a smudge of flour across his cheek. “Ha. Nice, man.” 

“Cool sweater, Matty,” Willy retorts, bats Marns’ hand out of his hair while Auston rolls his eyes.

“I make it look good,” he says, all easy confidence, and he’s not wrong. Today is unfair, Willy decides, only before he gets a chance to say that, Mitch is grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the living room. 

“Everyone,” Mitch announces, and the chatter in the room hushes, “guys, this is Willy, our-”

He stops. It barely counts as a pause, over in half a second. Not something Willy would ever notice if he wasn’t a pining loser, but he is, so he does.

Mitch picks up like nothing happened. “-our friend. He makes us coffee in exchange for using our Netflix password.”

That one gets a laugh, and then Willy’s getting dragged – literally dragged, because Marns doesn’t let go of his arm – around the room to get introduced to everyone.

Willy didn’t speculate too much about what they’d be like, but he thinks he’d have imagined them exactly like this if he had. It makes _sense_. He can see the little glimpses of Matts and Mitch in their families; physical stuff, sure, like the way that all the Marners have the same smile, but other things too. Matts’ sister chimes in with dry commentary, same as her brother. His mom talks softly like he does. 

She – Matts’ mom – is overjoyed when Willy breaks out one of the exactly three sentences he can say in Spanish. The other two are ‘do you want to go back to my place’ and ‘people tell me I look like Leonardo DiCaprio’, so he leaves those out. She’s all happy anyways, makes him repeat it to her husband, then calls Auston in from the kitchen so he can listen too. And Matts chirps him for his accent, perched on the arm of the couch, but then he’s catching Willy’s eye and smiling, unguarded and happy, and it’s-

It’s a lot, how easy it is.

Because, okay. Everyone here knows each other, teasing and debating with the familiarity of years of shared holidays, but no one acts like Will’s not supposed to be here. And it’s dumb, right, but he can’t help but picture his family in the middle of things. It’d fit, he thinks. His sisters would like Breyana, and his dad would be way too excited to talk minor league hockey with Mr. Marner, and, and, and…

There’s probably a line somewhere, where imagining turns into planning. He probably crosses it, can’t make himself stop and doesn’t think he wants to.

He’s _such_ an asshole.

\-------

“Matty,” Willy says, leaning back against him with a content sigh. “Bro, you should be on, like, Master Chef or something.”

“Shut up,” Auston says, but he kind of puffs out his chest a little, like he’s proud in spite of himself. “Bonnie did the main stuff.” It doesn’t quite manage to be humble, and Willy can’t help but grin, elbow Auston’s ribs.

They’re all sitting around, full from dinner and eating Mitch’s mom’s cheesecake anyways. It may not be the best cheesecake in the world, like, technically, but tastes like it might be, tonight. 

Willy’s just. _Happy_ , and it feels simple in a way he doesn’t quite know how to hold. Like- Matts has got an arm flung across the back of the couch, sandwiched between Will and his sister while Will uses him as a pillow. It’s comfortable, and Willy can’t think of anything that’d make him want to move, so he doesn’t, just sits there with a full stomach and sort of half-listens to the parents’ conversation. Almost dozes off, actually, ‘til Marns comes and drops a box in his lap.

Will blinks, startled, while Mitch settles himself on the floor, against Auston’s legs.

“What’s this?” Will asks. The box is covered in checked wrapping paper, a little bow on top and everything.

Mitch grins, rests his chin on Matts’ knee. “Open it.”

Will looks from him to Matts, taken aback. He didn’t get anything. He should’ve got something. “Guys-”

“Open your present, open your present-”

Auston nudges Will’s thigh with his knee, good-natured. “Open it, man, or Marns’ll spontaneously combust.” 

Mitch sticks his tongue out at Matts while Willy gives in and starts shelling off the wrapping paper. “Fuck you, Matthews-”

“Mitch!”

“Sorry, mom-”

He might say something else, probably does, because it’s Marns, but Willy doesn’t hear, too busy staring at the contents of the box.

It’s a knit sweater, the same one Auston and Mitch are wearing. The same exact one. 

“It was the last one they had in your size!” Mitch says, all excited. “D’you like it?”

And Will means to respond, he does, but he opens his mouth and nothing comes out; and he just sits there, holding onto the sweater and staring at it like it’s something he’s never seen.

And it doesn’t make sense – the sweater is the yarn equivalent of a circle jerk to the Toronto Maple Leafs, unabashedly hideous, and the entire concept of matching sweaters is so dorky Will wants to chirp himself for even being near it, and none of that explains why there’s a lump in his throat the size of Sweden.

It feels like something big.

Will can feel the others watching him, knows that Marns is thrown off by the lack of response because he starts talking fast, rambling like he does when he’s unsure. 

“We just thought- it’s kind of a joke. You don’t have to wear it.”

“I’m gonna wear it forever,” Will promises, tearing his gaze away from the sweater to meet Mitch’s eyes. He doesn’t realize how dramatic that statement sounds until the parents kind of laugh, and he blushes a little. Still pulls the sweater over his head right away, lets Matts tuck the tag in for him while Mitch takes a billion pictures.

His family’s going to give him _so_ much shit. It’s worth it for the looks on Matts’ and Marns’ faces. 

\-------

The three of them kill most of a bottle of red wine after the families’ve left, take maybe longer than they should to get around to cleaning. The Matthews are staying at the Marners’ place, because they have actual guest rooms, so there’s no luggage or anything, just approximately ten billion dishes. _So_ many leftovers, too.

Willy is being a polite guest. It’d be rude if he left without helping, he reasons, so he sets his empty wine glass on the dish rack, listens to the radio playing Christmas music quietly in the background while Auston washes the dishes and Will dries. He can hear Marns singing both parts of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ from where he’s portioning out the leftovers in the other room, muffled and off key.

“My sister thinks you’re hot,” Auston informs Will, passing him a plate to dry. “She kept telling me to subtly get her your number.” 

Will waggles his eyebrows, suggestive on purpose because he knows it’ll make Matts bust a blood vessel. “Oh, did she now?”

“Don’t,” he warns darkly, flicks a handful of soapy water at Will’s face when he starts making kissy noises. They’re kind of on their way to a full out water fight when Marns walks in. Or, like. Willy assumes it’s Marns, because he can't even see his face behind a teetering pile of plastic containers.

“How much food _was_ there?” he asks, incredulous, hastening over to help Marns set the leftovers on the counter.

Mitch shrugs, doesn’t look really bothered. “ _My_ question is, who knew we owned this many tupperwares? When did we even buy these?”

“Maybe you got possessed by the ghost of a suburban mom,” Will suggests. “It’d explain the sweaters, too.”

Mitch rolls his eyes while Auston grins by the sink. “You laugh, dude, but you’re taking at least fifteen of these home. Won’t be funny when you’re eating turkey in March.” 

“My food holds the fuck up, though,” Auston cuts in, defensive, and they basically have to chirp him about his cooking, then. And it might be the shoebox-sized kitchen, or that Will's warm as hell with his new sweater on over his shirt, or that they’re all a little on the right side of tipsy, but it’s as cozy as he can ever remember feeling, domestic enough that he kind of wants to throw up.

He’s barely paying attention to what’s playing on the radio, so he’s startled when Marns gasps. “Bon Jovi! Aus-”

“Oh, god,” Auston says, but when Will looks at him questioningly, he’s already shutting off the water, drying his hands on his jeans like he’s expecting something. 

“Shh,” Mitch says, leaving Will with four containers of potatoes so he can sway right up into Matts’ space, grabbing Auston’s hands and pulling them to his own waist. “I’m busy sweeping you off your feet.”

Auston laughs, grinning all teasing, but he pulls Mitch a little closer. “Oh, is that what’s happening here?”

“That’s what’s happening,” Mitch agrees , and the two of them are kind of giggling at each other, but – and Willy has to blink, can barely believe what he’s seeing – they’re _dancing_ , or at least swaying back and forth, kind of singing along under their breaths. 

Willy laughs out loud, mostly from surprise, but there’s something else in his chest, something ridiculously cheesy he doesn’t think he wants to name.

Mitch peeks at Will over his shoulder. “Bon Jovi is our thing,” he explains. “It’s romantic as _fuck_.”

“This is the worst Christmas song, though, tell me you know that,” Will chirps, and Matts flips him off behind Marns’ back without managing to stop smiling, presses a kiss to Mitch’s temple.

And it’s weird- It’s nowhere near graceful, because Auston and Mitch are both over six feet and there’s really not enough room for anything fancy even if they did know how to dance like they weren’t in a middle school gym, but the moment feels oddly special anyways. Willy gets the impression he’s watching something private, doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he’s allowed this.

Whatever reflective shit he’s thinking doesn’t last long, because Mitch gets it in his head to try and dip Auston and promptly staggers under his weight so Will has to rush over and yank them both upright.

“Shit-” Mitch says, but Will's laughing too hard at the panicked look on Matts’ face to manage a response – Auston’s clinging to both of them for dear life, like a two foot fall to a tiled floor would’ve done any damage, and he gives an exasperated sigh when Mitch starts laughing too, after a second.

“Assholes,” Auston exhales, fighting what looks like a losing battle against laughing. He’s still got a death grip on Will's forearm. “You’re both assholes.”

Everything seems more than it usually is, kind of surreal. They’re all three of them losing it laughing in the too-small kitchen in their matching sweaters, Bon Jovi begging his girl to please come home for Christmas; Mitch clinging to the counter like he’s going to fall over from laughing, Matts right next to Will with his sleeves all rolled up, hair flopping in his face.

Willy doesn’t realize he’s going to kiss him until he already is.

There’s nothing even going through his head, nothing coherent at least, just Auston’s mouth against his, the way he inhales, sharp, but doesn’t pull back, maybe even leans _closer_ -

There’s the sound of breaking glass, sudden and jarring, and reality hits like a bus. Willy jerks back, lifts a hand to cover his mouth. It’s easy to find the source of the noise: the remains of his wine glass are in a pile at Marns’ feet, like he backed into it and knocked it off the counter. It doesn’t even seem like Mitch knows or cares, because he’s staring at Will, wide-eyed, looking completely floored.

“Oh no,” Will says, head spinning. Matts is staring at him too, frozen across the tiny kitchen, and Willy could almost laugh at the looks on their faces except none of this is funny. His brain’s not cooperating – he forgets how to speak English, forgets everything except this awful guilt, right in his gut, embarrassing and sharp.

“I’m so sorry,” he stammers. “I- shit, I’m sorry.” 

The other two are still staring, and he can’t bring himself to meet their eyes, not if they’re looking at him like he deserves to be looked at right now. The mature thing to do would be to stay and apologize some more and talk it out, but Will’s never done the mature thing once in his life, _clearly_ , so instead he does what he does best and runs the fuck away.

Like, very literally, hops the little pile of broken glass and books it out of the apartment.

He thinks he hears Matts start saying his name before he goes, but it’s lost when the door’s shut behind him, and Will doesn’t stop ‘til he’s out of the building and down the street. He ducks into the first bus shelter he finds, out of the snow, and tries to remember how to breathe. The collar of his sweater is suffocating him.

He doesn’t know what he was thinking, what the _fuck_ was going through his head, trying to get in the middle of them. And, like, getting a good thing and fucking it up at the last minute is the story of his life, probably, but this feels worse than telling his dad he didn’t want to play anymore, worse than when his date told him he wasn’t boyfriend material. He’s not even friend material, not after what he just did.

What was he _thinking_?

\-------

Marns doesn’t come down for coffee anymore.

Willy shouldn’t have expected him to, because it’s not like he’d want to start his day by getting a latte from the guy who made a move on his boyfriend while he was standing right there. Still hits like a punch to the gut every time he sees Mitch pass by in the mornings. Will always pretends to be busy with the machines, stacking cups or whatever. Working in the same place as your former best friends sucks. Really, genuinely just sucks. 

Auston doesn’t come downstairs at all.

Or, okay – Willy knows that’s not true, knows that he must leave the apartment at some point, but he must do it really covertly, because Will watches Mitch coming and going for days and days and doesn’t catch so much as a glimpse of Matts. His imagination gets the best of him, eventually, and he spends the length of a few awful shifts thinking they broke up and one of them moved out and he’s singlehandedly responsible for destroying love in the world, except then he sees the two of them leave together, side by side, and realizes how stupid he was being to think they’d ever be anything but AustonAndMitch.

Like, Matts once came downstairs just to show him when Marns got an article on the front page of the sports section, all proud, and he blushes every time Mitch calls him babe, and Mitch- fuck, Mitch looks at Auston like he hung the actual moon, period, end of story. They’re the real deal, no room in that for anything else. Anyone else. 

Willy’s so, so relieved they’re okay. Better off without him, probably.

\-------

There’s one exception, and it’s worse than Willy thought it’d be.

He ends up talking to Marns, almost a month later and only because they literally crash into each other when Willy’s going through the front door at 5 AM, coming to open up. 

“My bad,” he says, then realizes who’s in front of him and freezes.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mitch says, and he sounds perfectly normal, almost enough that Will believes him. He has a duffel bag in addition to his ragged old backpack, a to-go mug of coffee and a hoodie that’s way too big for him half-zipped up his chest. Travelling for work, then.

“Hi,” Mitch says, and Willy realizes he’s been staring, so he blinks hard and looks anywhere but at Mitch. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand it, if he looks at Marns and sees him angry, or worse, sad. Willy broke every possible iteration of the bro code, of any code. Mitch didn’t deserve that. 

“Hi,” Will says, centuries too late. “You’re travelling?”

Mitch nods, fast. “Yeah, covering the All Star stuff, so.” He breaks off, and Will makes the mistake of meeting his eyes. “Listen, Willy-”

“So, I have to get in and open,” Will cuts him off, puts way too much effort into not sounding slightly crazed, doesn’t really succeed. “Start stuff brewing, you know.”

“Right, no. Of course,” Mitch says, and Will’s imagining the way he wilts, definitely. Wishful thinking.

They stand there for too long, three feet apart. It’s awkward like they’ve never been, neither sure how to say goodbye.

Mitch shoulders his bag. Will wants to hug him. Doesn’t. “How d’you say ‘wish everything wasn’t messed up with us’?” Mitch asks. “In Swedish?”

Will looks at him, standing there in Matts’ too-big hoodie, tentative and careful in the 5 am light.

“ _Jag är kär i dig_ ,” he says, and Mitch repeats it, careful, _trusting_ ; and it’s official, Willy is an absolute fucking garbage pile of a person, a hundred percent asshole, done.

Mitch is looking up at him expectantly. “Good?” 

“Yeah,” Will nods, and smiles as best as he can manage. It was a bad idea, to hear Mitch saying that. He’s all bad ideas, recently. “Great.”

Mitch returns his smile, and it’s too much, the smile and him and this entire conversation, so Willy drops his gaze again, stares at his feet ‘til Mitch shoves his hands in his pockets and leaves, leaving footprints in the snow. 

Matts still doesn’t come down for coffee. Will stops expecting him to.

\-------

It happens, like most life-changing things, while Will’s listening to Adele and day drinking. He’s got his laptop open in front of him, considering buying a plane ticket the way he’s been doing since Christmas – Germany would be nice, he’s always wanted to spend more time in Germany – when his landlady shouts up at him, piercing: “There are two boys at my door for you!” 

Willy knows who it is before he even goes downstairs. Genuinely considers climbing out of the window and making a break for it, but doesn’t, which he figures counts as some kind of character growth, maybe.

He was right: Auston and Mitch are standing in the front hall, looking around a little uncomfortably and still, by a wideass margin, the best things Will’s ever set eyes on. Sofia’s standing by the door, arms crossed. He barely notices her.

“Your visitors are supposed to use the door at the back.” 

“We didn’t say we were coming,” Mitch pipes up before Will can. “Sorry, it’s not his fault.”

“Hmph.” Sofia glowers at him, then at Willy, then at Auston maybe just for the heck of it, and goes tottering off back into her sitting room. There’s a couple seconds of stifling silence, then Auston kind of scratches the back of his neck, meets Willy’s eyes.

“Your roommate’s nice,” he deadpans, and it shatters the tension. Willy half-grins at him before he remembers that they haven’t been talking. And, oh look. There’s that tension, again.

“I’m upstairs,” he says. “If, like-”

“That’d be good, yeah.”

It’s the world’s weirdest, most pathetic parade, the three of them climbing up the stairs to Willy’s room. It’s not dirty, exactly, because he doesn’t own that much stuff, but his Adele playlist’s still going, and he almost trips over himself trying to shut it off. When he turns around, about to offer them a seat, Mitch is already sitting right on his bed, making himself at home in that way he has. Matts is lingering by the door, so Willy leans on his dresser, maybe halfway between them, and, because he’s still a fucking asshole, asks, “How’d you get my address?”

Neither of them looks offended, which is probably as good as Will could hope for. “Kind of besides the point,” Auston hedges, so Will looks at Mitch, who sighs.

“I flirted with your boss ‘til she gave me your info.”

Will’s impressed in spite of himself. “She’s, like. Forty. And has three kids.”

“I know,” Mitch says, serious. “I’m invited to Abby’s bat mitzvah in March.” 

And Will really does smile, this time, can’t even help it, because that’s just the most Mitch thing he’s ever heard; and Auston’s rolling his eyes, all fond, and it’s like they’re back on the couch, watching the Leafs before Will fucked everything up.

He did, though.

“Listen,” he says, “you guys, I-”

“Can we say something first?” Auston interrupts. “It’s, uh. It’s important.” 

Willy nods. Mitch and Auston are looking at each other again, having one of those silent conversations they have. He’s not sure what they decide, but Marns pats the bed next to him, waits until all three of them are sitting there before turning to face Will, uncharacteristically serious.

“We’re sorry,” he says, and it takes Will a second to process that, because- what? 

“What?” He looks from Mitch to Auston and back again, waiting for the punchline. It doesn’t come. “Why are you saying sorry?” 

Matts shrugs, all somber. “We were pushing you. Introducing you to our families, making you do the whole sweater thing, it’s- it was unfair. We didn’t mean to put, like. An expectation on you. So we’re sorry.” 

Willy barks a laugh, completely incredulous. “You- _I_ kissed _you_. In front of your _boyfriend_.”

Mitch looks vaguely surprised, and this is just the most nonsensical conversation of Will’s life, bar none. “You thought I was mad about that?”

“You dropped a glass,” Will says, helpless. “Your face, you looked-”

“I mean,” Marns says, a little awkward. “I was surprised, Willy. We were doing dishes, and then-”

“I know,” Will says, wincing, “I know, I’m so sorry-” 

“And it was also the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Mitch adds. “So. There’s that, too.”

Will’s breath gets stuck in his throat. 

Mitch doesn’t look like he’s joking. _Auston_ doesn’t look like he’s joking, and that’s maybe what convinces him, because Matts has a shit poker face, and he’s still staring at Will like it was a legitimate offer. 

Will’s had threesomes before. He’s done a lot of shit before, joking and not, guys and girls. He’s not- people say he’s hot all the time, people hint at him for stuff all the time, he’s the opposite of new to any of this. Months ago, before he knew Matts and Marns, he would’ve jumped at the chance, no questions asked. Of course he wants to have sex with them, he’s not _blind_. Now, though-

He can’t be the guy they banged once as, like, this fun little experiment. Can’t be the slightly slutty European guy they reminisce about when they’re retired in their rocking chairs, doesn’t think he can handle having this once and never again. He’d rather be their friend, at least get to keep some part of this, even if it means he spends the rest of his life listening to Adele and pining.

Turns out making the mature decision, in a not-entirely-surprising discovery, feels like utter shit. 

“Look,” he says, struggles to keep his voice steady. “Look, you guys are- you two are everything.” It sort of takes his breath away all over again, how true that is, more than probably anything he’s ever said. “You’re everything, and I can’t lose that just because I want to make out with you.”

“You don’t have to lose us,” Auston says, and his hand is on Will’s knee, grounding and terrifying and steady. “This isn’t, like, a hook-up and get out thing, it’s- you can have both, Will.”

And that, _that_ sounds like he’s saying-

But they wouldn’t-

“What,” Will starts, except his voice is too high, threatening to break, so he has to swallow, try to sound normal. His heart’s pounding in his chest. “What does that mean?” 

“Willy,” Mitch says, and when Willy turns to look at him, he’s looking right back, a little impatient, a lot fond, and none of this is anything even vaguely resembling reality. He moves real slow into Will’s space, gives him a million chances to pull back.

He doesn’t. Auston’s hand is still on his leg.

Mitch kisses stronger than Will was expecting. Both his hands come up to cup Will’s face, pushing up in his hair, and it’s gentle, because Mitch probably couldn’t be anything else if he tried, but it’s also, like. In control. Certain.

Will barely has a chance to part his lips under Marns’ before Mitch is drawing back, staring up at Will as serious as he’s ever looked.

“You can have both,” Mitch repeats, real slow, and this time there’s no room left for doubt.

Willy glances at Matts, who stares right back, meets his eyes with the barest hint of a smile, like a question and an answer all at once.

“Oh,” Will says, and does the only thing that makes sense, which is to grab the other two around the necks and throttle them in the absolute biggest hug he can manage, nearly sending them all toppling to the ground – as it is, they end up in a pile on the bed, Auston’s elbow in Will’s gut and Mitch on top of both of them, heavy.

“Guys,” Will says, all overwhelmed, smiling embarrassingly big and not caring enough to try and stop, because the other two are doing the same, and Matts is laughing when he tugs Will and Marns closer, this mess of limbs on his twin mattress.

“I can't believe you were listening to _Adele_ ,” Mitch giggles, and Willy beams, reaches up to mess up his hair.

Auston props himself up so he can meet Will’s eyes. “So that’s a yes? You’ll date us?”

"Matts, _yes_ ,” Willy says, ‘cause he thought that was obvious, and kisses him, hard, just because he can. It’s messy, both of them smiling too big for anything like finesse, somehow still the best kiss of Will’s life. “I’m so happy, fuck.”

Mitch is practically jumping on the bed, grabs both of their hands and holds them up to his chest. “Guys,” he says. “Guys, we’re gonna be so great!”

Auston pulls his hand loose, just enough to jab Mitch in the ribs where he’s ticklish. It sends him collapsing down all over again, which flattens Will on the bed. He can’t even bring himself to mind, just presses his face into Marns’ hair, says, “Yeah, we are.”

And it’s like being _home_ , he realizes, and he just-

He knows. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- a small swedish dictionary: sug en grodkuk = suck a frog dick; jag har en liten kuk = i have a small dick; jag är kär i dig = i'm in love with you  
> -every other regular at that starbucks fucking hates these guys. they take so long to order. people have to get to work!! someone missed their kid’s recital because willy got distracted by mitch’s eyes and fucked up the espresso machine!! darn large beautiful jerks.  
> \- this isn’t at all relevant to the plot but i like to imagine auston in this universe sometimes wears glasses because of staring at a computer screen all day ~~and also because i just want him to whoops~~


End file.
